Chapter Text
Nikolai remembers his life before the apocalypse. He missed it despite the trauma it caused him, but it was better than the present.
Before the world ended, Nikolai Gogol stood under the spotlight of the circus tent. He was the star of the show. He always was. He was the magician, the acrobat, the performer, he danced between life and death with every leap. He thrived in the spotlight, or he thought he did.
For most of his life, his world had been wrapped in the circus's red-and-gold curtains. Now, as an adult, every night, he soared through the air, twisting and flipping in the spotlight, his body a blur of grace and precision. He was untouchable. He was free.
He would begin his final act of the night, his iconic vanishing trick. The crowd would hold their breath as he stepped into a large box and with the drop of a curtain, he would disappear. Moments later, he would reappear on the podium for the trapeze, waving down at the stunned audience with a grin.
The night felt endless, as it always did under the glow of the stage lights. He had no idea that this performance would be one of his last.
The moment the show ended, the weight of his reality crushed him back down. Nikolai walked backstage, still dressed in his black and white suit, brushing strays of confetti from his hair.
“You outdo yourself every night, Kolya. You were born for this.” Him…Ivan, the manager said. To close to Nikolai.
Nikolai smiled, twirling a coin between his fingers before making it disappear. “What’s life without a little risk?” The words felt heavier than usual.
He thought back to his parents. The people who had left him there when he was a child, dropped him off like an unwanted prop, another orphan for the ringmaster to mold. And mold him he did. Nikolai was carved into something unnatural, something perfect, someone who no longer felt like a person. Nikolai was the definition of an illusion of joy and the crowd adored him.
But no one had ever really seen him.
A week before the world fell apart, Nikolai had been planning to leave, to escape from this cage. He knew he should have left in his teen years but who was he without the circus? For years he had been hiding the money he earned, keeping a bag packed under the floorboards of his trailer. He told himself he would leave after his final performance of the season.
He left much earlier.
That night, the news buzzed with reports of some sickness spreading in the city, and people acting strangely. Nikolai had paid no attention. The world always seemed to be in some kind of chaos.
Three days later, more news reports came in. Riots and strange attacks in the city. By the afternoon, the circus was put into lockdown, no one could come in and no one could come out. However, the manager was convinced it would be over soon and that all performers were told to prepare for their next show.
That night, the first infection reached the circus.
At first, no one understood what was happening. How could it have happened? A contortionist named Mira had been bitten in town. She had been feverish and murmuring about hunger before she collapsed. The manager ordered her to be taken to the medical tent. But within the hour, she wasn’t the only one screaming.
She had turned.
Nikolai during this time had been practising his aerial routine when he heard the chaos below. He slid down the silks in an instant, just in time to see another performer, his body jerking in unnatural movements and lunging at one of the crew members. Blood spattered across the ground.
The world ended. His world ended
Panic erupted. The circus became a nightmare. The manager tried to calm the situation but the infection spread too fast. One by one, they turned. Nikolai ran. He ran to his trailer, changing into better-fitting clothes, grabbing whatever supplies he could, his bag from the floorboard, money, food, and a knife.
Running through the place, he heard screams of the dying, blending with the distant echoes of music playing from the speakers. A fire had been spread during the chaos, taking down the bright red and gold fabric, he was raised in.
Nikolai ran, his hands trembling as he made his way through the chaos. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
“Nikolai!”
The voice froze him in place. It was Ivan.
His manager. The man who had shaped him, carved him into a perfect performer, taken him in when no one else wanted him. The man who had controlled him for years.
Nikolai turned, his heart hammering in his chest. Ivan was trapped beneath a fallen supply crate, his leg pinned, his face filled with desperation.
“Nikolai, please. Help me!” He gasped, reaching out toward him.
For a moment, Nikolai hesitated. He took a small step forward before stopping.
“You’re my star” He pleaded, his voice softer now. That same voice that always forced Nikolai back onto the stage, even when he wanted to run. “I raised you, didn’t I? You’re the only one who can get me out of here.”
Nikolai’s hands curled into fists.
Lies. They were all Lies. He had never been raised, only owned.
The infected, or zombies, were coming closer, their growls growing louder. The manager’s breath hitched, panic flickering across his face. He saw the hesitation.
“Nikolai, you wouldn’t just leave me, right? I did everything for you from raising you to teaching you.”
The guilt, the manipulation. The way the manager always made him feel small.
Now though, Nikolai wasn’t small anymore. He had the high ground. He won't let himself be manipulated into staying.
He took a slow step back, his legs were aching and his lungs burned. The smoke was getting to him but now, for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel afraid.
“Nikolai, don’t you dare!” The manager’s voice snapped, the desperate begging turning into fury as he realised…
Nikolai wasn’t coming back.
“Nikolai Gogol!”
The last thing he saw before he turned and ran was the manager’s face filled with rage, shouting his name as the zombies ran past him. Fire engulfed the scene.
Nikolai didn’t know if he survived or not. Instead, he ran, faster than he ever had before. And for the first time in his life. Nikolai Gogol wasn’t running toward the circus. He was running away.
And he didn’t look back.
For days, Nikolai wandered the city, watching as the world collapsed. The streets that were once alive, buzzing with people were filled with zombies.
He learned quickly. He learned how to move without being seen, kill when he had to, and outrun death.
He wasn’t a performer anymore, only a survivor.
-
“Who the hell are you?” Nikolai shouted, pointing his pistol but the man didn’t answer…
The silence was loud, and thick as the dust lingered in the air. Nikolai swore he could feel his heart pounding in his ears as he steadied his arm, his fingers curling tighter around the pistol’s grip. The man in front of him didn’t move.
A single, unbothered gaze met Nikolai’s frantic one. It was calm, calculating even.
The man never answered. Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, the dim light catching a glimpse of his face. His eyes were dark and gleamed with something unsettling…
Nikolai swallowed. Over the past month, he had seen many types of survivors, some were desperate, some were ruthless, and others were broken. But him…this man, he was something different.
The zombies clawed at the metal door behind Nikolai, the groans were a reminder that he had no choice but to be here. He couldn’t go back outside or he’d die.
“Put the gun down” The man finally spoke, his voice was smooth, unwavering. It had an accent to it. Nikolai would be lying if he said it wasn’t attractive.
Nikolai let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”`
“Then shoot me.” the man said simply, taking a step forward. “However, I’d suggest saving your bullets.”
Nikolai stiffened, but his finger didn’t press the trigger. This guy. He was confident. Meaning he was either dangerous or he had nothing left to lose. Maybe both.
“Who are you?” Nikolai asked again. This time, he lowered the gun just slightly.
The man watched him for a moment before responding. “Fyodor Dostoevsky.”
Nikolai frowned. “Russian?”
Fyodor gave a slight nod. “And you?”
Nikolai hesitated. Something about Fyodor watching him made his skin crawl, It felt like he was being dissected. But zombies were outside, introductions should have been the least of his problems.
Hesitantly, Nikolai sighed “Nikolai…” He said cautiously, glancing around the warehouse. It was empty, with only a few abandoned crates and broken shelves. It didn’t look like Fyodor lived here, so what was he doing alone?
Glazing back at Fyodor, the man’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk “Well, Nikolai, it seems you’ve brought guests.”
As if on cue, there was a loud thud from outside, followed by the sound of bodies slamming into the door, wails echoed through the metal walls. Nikolai winced.
“If you don’t have a way out of here,” Nikolai said, standing up and away from the door “we’re gonna have a problem.”
Fyodor didn’t look concerned. Instead, he turned slightly and pointed toward the far end of the warehouse. “There’s a back exit. But I assume you don’t plan on leaving alone.”
Nikolai narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Fyodor took a slow step forward and this time, Nikolai caught a glimpse of a knife on his hip. It wasn’t drawn nor threatening, just there.
“You’re injured” Fyodor said, his gaze flicking down to Nikolai’s leg. “You won’t get far.”
Nikolai cursed under his breath. He had forgotten about the cut on his leg from the fall. And now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the pain was setting in. However, he wasn’t about to show weakness. “I can manage” He shot back.
Fyodor studied him for another long, unreadable moment before sighing, it sounded almost like he was amused. “You’re reckless,” He muttered.
“Says the guy standing around in an empty warehouse like some movie villain.”
Fyodor chuckled. “Touché.”
Another loud slam against the door. The metal creaked. They were running out of time.
Fyodor turned slightly, his expression unreadable as he spoke again. “I have a group. We’re not far from here.”
Nikolai tensed at the implication. He can’t…
Fyodor noticed his hesitation and lifted a brow. “You have a better option?”
Nikolai’s mind raced. He had a kid to get back to, and now he was injured, low on ammo, and surrounded. The idea of trusting a stranger, especially one as unreadable as Fyodor, made his stomach turn, but he wasn’t stupid. Right now, he needed to survive. If he survived he can get back to the kid. Like he promised.
Nikolai let out a breath “Alright, Dostoevsky,” He said, slipping his gun back into his holster. “Lead the way.”
Fyodor’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. “Good choice, Nikolai.” The sound of his name slipping off the man's tongue made him shiver. He should be with the kid right now. He can’t just leave them, but if he dies, he’d leave the kid with nothing…
So with that, Nikolai followed Fyodor as he slipped into the shadows, leaving the zombies clawing at the door behind them.